“You’re too intelligent a man to believe we would do that,” Mark Telfair said steadily. “I don’t know what you’re counting on, but I tell you that a frank talk with me is your one chance to receive a reprieve.”
“And what does a reprieve mean?” Herrington retorted. “Simply time for me to make my revered bank a present of five million — and then execution or life imprisonment.”
“The governor is not bargaining,” Mark Telfair stated. “Your case will be reviewed, proper notice taken of your new attitude. That is all I can say.”
“All right; you’ve said it,” Herrington snapped. “Good-by!”
“Think — man — think!” Telfair blazed. “Think of what your silence means to others!”
Herrington laughed mockingly. “I’m thinking of what my silence will mean to me!”
He turned his back on Telfair and sat down on his bunk.
Chapter IV
The Blue Snake Strikes
Mark Telfair walked away. Warden Crawford followed. Keeper Naylor, standing by near the door with the other keeper on duty, shook his head at Telfair, guessing that he had failed.
“What’s the time?” Mark Telfair muttered as they left the death house.
“Six minutes past eleven,” answered the warden soberly. “Less than half an hour now.”
“The governor told me to inform you that once Herrington left his cell to enter the execution chamber his chance of a reprieve was over,” Telfair said crisply. He wiped the perspiration off his forehead. “For the good of the State there is to be no indication of last minute uncertainty. The execution chamber is not to be used as a torture chamber or for purposes of third degree.”
“I understand,” Warden Crawford replied. He halted. “The governor is wise. I must warn Herrington of this. Will you wait for me in my office?”
Mark Telfair assented at once. He moved on with quicker steps toward the warden’s office as Crawford walked back to the death house.
Counsellor Smythe had ceased to pace. His cigar was discarded in an ashtray and he was sitting down, with his small eyes on the face of the warden’s clock. He looked up quickly at Telfair.
Mark stepped in and crossed the room. He drew out of his pocket the broken metal rod and laid it on the desk under Smythe’s eyes.
“Do you know what that is?” he demanded.
Herrington’s attorney did not pick up the rod but bent forward to study it closely.
“It looks like one of those guides they put on fenders to show you how close to things you can drive without scratching your paint,” he said at last in a level voice. “The knob sticks up into sight to indicate the edge of the fender. Why ask me that?”
He paused, nodding his head. “I have two on my own roadster,” he added. “Mitchell put them on so I wouldn’t scrape the side of my garage. This one’s been broken off.”
“That’s right,” Mark agreed. “It was broken off when some roadhog swung his fenders against mine and shoved my light car clear off the road.”
Martin P. H. Smythe muttered a word of sympathy. “They’ll do anything, some of these drivers,” he conceded. “On our roads a man’s life—”
He stopped suddenly and stared at the clock.
“Going to see Herrington?” Mark Telfair inquired. He picked up the bit of metal and put it carefully in his pocket.
“Herrington knows I’m here,” Smythe said. His eyes were held by the red second hand of the electric clock. It moved in an unending series of tiny jerks around the dial. “If he wants me he’ll ask for me. I can’t harrow myself any more about this case — unless to some purpose.”
“Herrington is taking that five million with him,” Mark said.
“I wish that five million was in hell!” Smythe burst out. He caught up his cigar.
“You’ll feel better — after it’s over,” Mark suggested. “I hope you will.”
The stout, round-shouldered lawyer closed his teeth on his cigar. He did not reply.
Soundlessly the little red hand moved on. They waited. The warden did not come. Several minutes passed by. Herrington’s sands were growing swiftly fewer. Mark Telfair inclined his head.
Suddenly the door opened. Both men started. Warden Crawford slowly entered the room. His eyes, too, sought the clock; then he poured himself a glass of coffee and drank it in silence.
“Everything is about ready,” he said in a curt low voice. “In fifteen minutes — Mr. Smythe, I’m sorry to have brought you down here. There is no reason for you to stay longer. And you, Mr. Telfair?”
Mark Telfair turned toward the door.
“May I telephone?” he asked.
Warden Crawford led him to a smaller office, in which was a soundproof booth.
Mark Telfair called a New York hotel, waited, said a few words and waited again. Then to the man who answered he rapidly outlined the events of the evening. Tersely he concluded:
“Herrington will not speak, Governor. But there is something wrong — something queer back of his stubborn silence. I have a feeling that he thinks he has an ace in the hole. And he hasn’t. Let me find out what this means, Governor! If you will grant him a reprieve of twenty-four hours I may be able to uncover something about that five million.”
He was silent for a moment; then spoke again slowly, with great earnestness. “I have nothing definite to go on. Yes, sir; Herrington is guilty of Detective Mahon’s murder. Under the law he should die. But I feel that... that there is some sinister force in action here tonight that decrees Herrington’s execution by the state. The state itself is being used as a tool. Sir, I am not asking you to save Herrington; I am trying, as you instructed me, to save many innocent people from distress and misery. Give Herrington twenty-four hours, Governor; give me twenty-four hours to locate that five million.”
Again he listened, and his face grew grim.
“I am sorry that you think me fanciful or sentimental, sir,” he said with stiff formality. “I understand that the law must be enforced. Yes, sir, I have my orders.”
He replaced the telephone instrument and left the booth.
Two pairs of eyes bore upon him as he entered the warden’s office.
“I have orders to attend the execution, Warden,” he said curtly to the prison official. “I am to follow Herrington to the brink of the grave to seize on any hint he may let fall concerning the hiding place of his loot.”
“It is time to go over to the... house,” Warden Crawford announced. He touched his forehead with a handkerchief.
Counsellor Smythe followed them into the hall; then stopped. “I’ll wait,” he muttered in a hoarse voice. “Might as well see it through — but not — there.”
For the second time that night Warden Crawford led Mark Telfair toward the death house. They encountered a distracted prison chaplain. He confronted them with the face of one in torment.
“No reprieve?” he implored. “And he will not see me? He will not make his peace?”
“I am sorry,” said the warden gently, and they left him.
In another minute they were inside a small chamber. There was no unusual stir; no hurry, no last minute details being completed within. The witnesses were in their places; several keepers attending to no apparent duties were in waiting.
The chair, a plain bit of furniture to which no one would give a second glance elsewhere, occupied its prominent place. The door in the wall that led to the condemned cells was no differed from any other door.
But over this matter-of-fact room there hung an atmosphere so awfully oppressive that it was like a physical burden. The feeling it gave was that this chamber and the people in it were under some terrible pressure. It was a pressure which tortured the bodies and souls of all. And though there was a determined attempt at ordinary composure the faces of men were metal masks — brazen shells stamped down on the human flesh and blood beneath.